He called one of the security guards over from beside the door and spoke with him quietly then came out from behind the reception desk.
“My name’s Graham. If you’d come with me…”
She followed him, not to the bank of elevators where a few people waited, but into a smaller one around the corner. Inside, there were just two buttons, one pointing up and one down. Graham pressed the up button, and they rose smoothly. When the doors opened, he didn’t exit. Instead, he pointed to a set of black double doors opposite.
Tara stared at them, unable to shake the feeling that this was the point of no return. What if Aunt Kathy had been right? What if there was a very good reason not to question the past?
“Go ahead,” Graham murmured from beside her. “Mr. Roth doesn’t… bite.”
Tara scowled at the faint thread of amusement in his voice—it seemed as though everyone was finding her funny today. She stalked out of the elevator.
This floor appeared deserted, and hushed. Her feet made no sound on the thick carpets as she walked toward the imposing doors. Without giving herself any more time to think, she pressed her finger lightly to the smooth black metal and the door swung open. Inside, the room was in semi-darkness, the only light spilling in from the floor to ceiling windows that lined the far wall.
Perhaps no one was home.
She hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to stay or go, when a man spoke from inside.
“Come in, Ms. Collins.”
The voice was low, husky, and vaguely familiar. She hesitated a moment more and then took the few steps inside. Behind her, the door swung shut. The air was cool against her skin and she glanced around.
“Lights,” she muttered. “Lights would be good here.”
A faint click, and warm light filled the room. Tara blinked a couple of times then her gaze locked on the figure seated behind the huge steel desk.
The man from the alley. Why wasn’t she more surprised?
“You know,” she said. “You could have introduced yourself.”
A small smile curved his lips. “And spoil the surprise?”
Yeah, right.
He stood slowly, then came around the desk to stand in front of her, one arm outstretched. Tara fought the urge to hide her hands behind her back; something about this man set her on edge. Of course, it could be that the whole “breaking the rules” thing was just screwing with her mind, that right now, she was predisposed to see weirdness in everything.
She grasped his hand firmly, intending the greeting to be brief, but his fingers tightened around hers. Her gaze shot to his face. He wasn’t a handsome man; his features were too harsh for that, with pale skin stretched tight over hard bones. But his silver eyes held her mesmerized as he lifted her hand. For a moment, she was sure he intended to kiss it, but he merely inhaled deeply. Something flashed in his eyes, something hot and hungry, and a shiver ran through her. Then the expression vanished as if it had never been.
“I’m Christian Roth.”
“So your receptionist told me.” She gave a tug. “Could I have my hand back?”
He smiled and released her, then gestured to a chair in front of his desk.
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me how I can…help you.” He waited until she was seated, then returned to his own chair. “So, Tara Collins, why do you need a private investigator?”
This was the moment she’d built herself up for over the last six months. She’d even practiced the words in front of the mirror. But now, at the last second, they didn’t want to come out. She cleared her throat. Took a deep breath. She could do this.
“I want you to find out who I am.”
There, she’d done it. Broken Rule Number One.
She sat very still, staring at her hands. Her aunt had always been a little vague about the actual consequences of breaking the rules—just that they’d be dire. Tara had always imagined some sort of fiery bolt from above. Now she waited for it to crash down and annihilate her.
Nothing happened.
“So, you’re not Tara Collins?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I’ve always been called Tara Collins. But I don’t know who she is or who my parents were or where I came from.”
“Perhaps you’d better explain a little more.”
She wished she could. Really she did. But she had no explanations; nothing she’d discovered since her aunt’s death made any sense. “Maybe I should start at the beginning.”
“A good place to start.”
Was he mocking her? But his expression was bland and she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I was brought up by my Aunt Kathryn. At least I always thought she was my aunt. We lived in a house on the Yorkshire moors. Aunt Kathy was a little…eccentric.” And that was the understatement of the century. “She never left the house and she would have preferred it if I never left, though sometimes I would…”